Deathgrip

by Brian Hodge

  “Fine. She’s talented enough to superimpose negatives of Mandy onto some Salvadoran backgrounds. That way we can show Mandy at work, Mandy waving to everyone at home and in the audience. It’ll add a lot of credibility to the story.”

  Gabe drained off his water, poured another glass. Ice cubes tinkled, brittle as cold bones. “And if worse comes to worst … if Mandy doesn’t … make it … we’re covered. She’ll have been martyred.”

  Gabe. Oh, but couldn’t he be the cold-blooded one about things when the situation truly called for it. The proverbial double-edged sword, the one thing Donny truly admired about him yet at the same time feared. Martyred. Lovely choice of words, such a gulf lying between the generic form, killed, and this window-dressed alternative. And wouldn’t the love offerings come pouring in if the word martyred were to hit the airwaves?

  My wife. My love. And dear lord, we’re discussing her the same as we’d discuss a stock portfolio.

  Yet she would understand, wouldn’t she? They had labored side by side for more than fifteen years, same goals in mind and visualizing that same pot of gold at rainbow’s end. Two peas in an evangelical pod, in no way would she wish to endanger that. And now that, by sour chance, circumstances had indeed arisen that could prick up the ears of media jackals, set their jaws slavering for another man of the cloth to rend to bits, Amanda would not want to make their task any easier. A rock, a saint.

  I’m tired of living out lies.

  Hated phrase, it wouldn’t leave him alone for long, its recall frequent and punctual. Had to have been Satan talking to her, through her, confusing her. The master deceiver. He wasn’t the cute, pointy-tailed little red sprite with the goatee and trident of popular imagination. His wardrobe was limitless: the lie, the doubt, the fear, the unbelief, the loss of faith.

  Yes. Amanda would want it handled this way.

  All of which had transpired on Thursday. It was now Sunday, and the intervening days had served only to harden Donny’s conviction that they’d acted properly. Brains and prudent judgment had prevailed.

  Following the compound-only morning worship service, Sunday afternoons were generally quiet in the Dawson household and throughout the grounds. Day of rest, sorely needed. The only thing he could hear as he sat in his living room was the steady pendulum tick of the grandfather clock, cater-corner across the room from the sofa. Along the same wall, multipane windows gave a wide western view, a panorama of trees. In the corner directly across from him sat a six-foot Sony with projection screen. A window to some parallel universe where all was polished, perfect, preplanned. This afternoon he found the room conducive to thought, contemplation of what genuinely mattered in life.

  Doing the right thing was not one of life’s trivialities, because it didn’t always mean making the most obvious choice. Or the easiest. And at times, when values clashed, the accompanying strife could turn your heart into a battleground.

  Was it right to conduct holy worship with vaudevillian pomp and flair, complete with sleight-of-hand and trickery and implanted suggestions of near-hypnotic power? Indeed it was, for there were plenty of people out there who needed precisely that. Craving something to bring them closer to the Almighty, hungering for that which they could see and touch and hear. And which they could replay a thousand times over on their VCR if so inclined, only $29.95 per tape. And if he could provide a sagging spirit with an uplifting jump start, so much the better.

  Donny Dawson, God’s cheerleader.

  And the money? The house? The Cadillacs? Nothing wrong with these at all, so long as your heart was in the right place, truly appreciative of the just rewards for doing the right thing. And for every liberal secular humanist who piped up to accuse this humble servant of bilking his followers for whatever he could, all you had was one more termite working in vain at the foundations of Heaven. Let him chew on eternity in Hell.

  He liked that, liked the sound of it. Have to write that one down.

  “Knock knock,” soft voice from the living room doorway. Gabe joined him, the relaxed Gabe for a change, the at-ease Gabe. An Izod shirt and tan slacks with creases sharp enough to slice underbrush, this was as relaxed as Gabe ever seemed to get. He held a manila envelope in one hand.

  “Have you talked to Irv yet today?” Gabe asked.

  Donny nodded. “The swelling’s gone down some more. He’s tentatively planning on discharging her on Thursday.”

  Gabe sat in a plump chair angled off one end of the sofa. Shook Donny’s knee with a firm hand. “And how’s her husband?”

  The eternal question, the challenge writ in heartbreak. Devoid of easy answers. “I miss her, Gabe. I feel so incomplete. I have been cut in half.”

  Gabe, respectful as ever, deference given as needed. He would be in and out, with no wasted time. “Just a quick briefing for you. I have the initial pictures Carmen worked up in the darkroom. I think you’ll like these.”

  Donny opened the manila envelope, flipped through the short stack of eight-by-ten glossies, black and white. Amanda in El Salvador, a trip that never was. He was duly impressed. Carmen was a genuine wizard of negatives and enlargers and Kodak paper. For the briefest of moments, even he could believe the lies. Amanda, there she was, full of life and renewed vitality. Properly lovely, black hair swept back from her ears, the only thing preventing her from looking indecently alluring being her widening hips and her saintly eyes. Amanda, standing in the doorway of a ramshackle dwelling. Clutching a microphone and singing her heart out beside a rudimentary pulpit. Others, equally good. He could very nearly believe she was there.

  “They’re excellent,” he said, handing them back.

  Gabe nodded, yes, yes, knew you’d be satisfied, and when he left, Donny couldn’t quite decide if he’d sent Gabe away, or if the man had stepped out of his own volition. He had that effect sometimes, that subtle manipulation of perception. Amusing, under some circumstances, unsettling under others. But Gabe’s heart was in the right place, and this, above all, was the most important consideration. Gabe abused no power, craved no personal glory.

  I don’t know what I’d do without him.

  Yet his function and proficiency could extend only so far. For the seat of command was still the loneliest place to be.

  Chapter 5

  The House of Wax was founded on one simple credo: The music lover should feel as if death had set in and Heaven had been attained. Paul, music lover to the end, felt blissfully at home as soon as he set foot past the door. This place was not to be believed, a three-level candy store, and he was the kid with the biggest sweet tooth around. New, cutouts, used, imports, all in mass quantities and prime condition. Walls covered with posters of everyone from Arthur Fiedler to Frank Zappa. His bank account was going to be taking a beating, sure as death and taxes. Might as well cut to the chase, start endorsing his paychecks over.

  Tuesday brought the remote broadcast for the official House of Wax grand opening. Equipment in place, most outdoors on the sidewalk facing Delmar Boulevard. The weather, warm and sunny, was more than agreeable enough for a miniature street party out front. The neighborhood cried out for such things, like St. Louis’ own version of Greenwich Village. They called this drag the Loop, shops and sojourns where you could thumb your nose at conventionality. Get your hair cut as unique as you wished, or dine Jamaican while some other cuisine is flavor-of-the-month. See art films at the Tivoli, and afterward debate their meanings at a coffeehouse. Find a thrift shop hat and wear it to Blueberry Hill, a lovingly jumbled hybrid of bar, restaurant, and oldies rock and roll museum.

  Street party, hah. Try that in the provincial stuffiness of a suburb like Ladue.

  A station engineer had set up an antenna linking them with KGRM, connected by coax cable to their portable transmitter, which in turn fed into a PA mixer and speakers inside the store and out. KGRM itself was picked up by a home receiver patched into the PA. A two-way communication system rode piggyback on the transmitter so they could speak with Lorraine in the booth as priva
tely as a phone line. Dutifully, Peter masking-taped cords, precious safeguard, for inevitable klutzes were always looking to trip them from their jacks.

  Sales geek Clifford Frankl introduced them to store owner Danny Schalter, whose glossy black ponytail hung to center back. He was a benign Mephistopheles with a wicked moustache and goatee to match, and the biggest, most soulful eyes Paul had ever seen. The man had brains, as well, for he had chosen the date of his grand opening with a strategist’s eye. Late June, the crowd that consumed music like popcorn newly out of school with wallets and purses filled with the first weeks’ wages from summer jobs. They had turned out in force, browsing through the labyrinth of bins, gathering before the store in celebration.

  “When’s the first break?” Danny asked, besieged at the counter.

  “A few more minutes. We’ll go into it at four o’clock, straight up,” Paul said. “Is it okay with you if we kick things off out front?”

  Danny said sure, sure, whatever works. Paul watched him bag a stack of tapes. Crinkly plastic, with the store logo and the words HOUSE OF WAX SAX. Cute.

  Paul wandered outside, feeling those preremote jitters in his stomach. Silly, but he always got them. Speaking to the masses was one thing from the insular solitude of the booth, quite another when you were on public display. Blend into things, get their feeling, immerse.

  The mood out front was festive, the gathering perhaps forty strong. U2 was tearing from the speakers, and several were dancing to hypersonic guitar, impassioned vocals. Peter watched, impenetrable behind dark shades and facial hair, taking his post beside the equipment to guard it from thieves, klutzes, other assorted evildoers.

  “Check her out,” Peter said, and nodded with his chin. Some chubby girl dancing energetically fifteen feet away, great hair and the world’s tightest jeans. “A cross between Tina Turner and the Goodyear blimp, right?”

  Paul frowned. “You’re a cruel bastard.”

  Peter was all protested innocence. “Hey, I didn’t say I didn’t like her.” He stroked his beard, a slave trader watching the arrival of a new ship from the Orient. “She’s bouncy. I like bouncy. She looks fun.”

  Paul watched for another few moments, then decided, as long as they were being complete sexist pigs, he would much rather rest his gaze on Tina Goodyear’s dancing partner. A willowy sylph in Chic designers and a loose pink tank top. Dark blonde hair spilled down around her face and shoulders in a manner almost lewd; early Bardot.

  Wonderful. The combined ages of these two likely wouldn’t far surpass Peter’s alone. Their fathers were probably cops, too. If living like a college student was occupational hazard number one, then this was a close second: too much contact with early bloomers. Statutory city. Prudent judgment, if you please.

  And it was time to check in with the station. Paul donned headphones and keyed the two-way link with the booth. So long as her studio mike wasn’t open, his incoming signal would arrive through the soundboard speaker used for cueing album tracks before play, a kind of long-distance intercom.

  He panted heavy breath into his microphone, then whispered, “Oooo, first thing I’m gonna do, I’m gonna bite off all your buttons…”

  “Sexual harassment, you perverts are all alike,” Lorraine fired back through the headphones. Then a breathy sigh of disappointment; so close to his ears, the express lane directly to his libido. “All talk and no action.”

  And here it was again, that flirtation, no holds barred, nothing’s shocking. So upfront it was almost casual. This could not, could not, last, he reasoned. Either wane, or progress, but running it into habitual routine seemed unlikely.

  And which of these would be the more frightening?

  “Everything shaping up there okay?” Lorraine asked.

  “Not a hitch. You ready to be upstaged for two hours?”

  That laugh, defiant acceptance of the gauntlet of challenge. “In your ear.”

  They broke contact, and he and Peter killed off the remaining minutes doing crowd circulation, weeding out likely prospects to put on the air and sing the praises of The House of Wax. Most were more than willing, hungry for their shot at fame, the Andy Warhol fifteen minutes. Cliff and Danny Schalter joined them, and the zero hour drew nigh.

  “Hey, listen up, special treat for you now,” Lorraine’s voice clear and strong, backed by one-hundred-watt speakers. “The roving Peter and Paul show is on the loose again. We let the guys out of their cages and sent them over to The House of Wax on Delmar, here in U City. Property values will never be the same, I’m sure. Peter Hargrove … Paul Handler … the air is yours!”

  Peter cut the station volume to nil and booted up their mike levels in the same motion, and Paul charged in with his frequent war cry: “Lock up your children and hide your sheep!” The throng reacted with a mighty roar. They had just hit the ground running.

  Keep it loose, keep it hyper. For the next five minutes, they lived and breathed and sweated for The House of Wax, greatest thing since sliced bread and free enterprise. Then they turned it back over to Lorraine, and music once again wailed through like an air-raid siren. Rockers, boppers, plugging into it and the dancing was fresh, renewed, energized.

  During the next break, Peter held the mike for several of the crowd, their preselected few, the unrehearsed cavalcade of rocker-in-the-street impressions of the store. Tina Goodyear and her friend — Stacy Donnelly, as she gave her name — made enthusiastic spokespersons. Once they’d punted back to Lorraine and Paul was coiling his microphone cord out of harm’s way, Stacy wandered up and smiled at him. Eyes, large and wide-spaced, a shade of blue the color of heartbreak. He could have puddled onto the sidewalk. Give me strength.

  “So you’re Paul Handler?” she said, and Peter gave him a discreet wink and a nudge. Scum.

  He nodded. “For better or for worse.”

  “Wow. I mean, you look exactly like I had you pictured.”

  A career first. Paul felt like a Greek god. This lass was bucking for the just-conceived office of Sweetheart of KGRM. She seemed to hang close after the festivities moved indoors. Could it be, his first KGRM groupie? Anonymous phone titillation didn’t count. If only she weren’t so achingly young. No fair.

  The next two breaks were conducted from inside the store, air-conditioned comfort, drawing names for prize giveaways. Danny Schalter glowed, happy man in his element. Paul found himself, in the lulls of his own duties, watching Danny from across the store. Wondering about him, who he was inside. This place was so obviously a dream come true for him, and as such, he’d surely made sacrifices somewhere along the line. What had he given up along the way to create this triumphal afternoon?

  Paul never really thought much of sacrificial terms until moments like this. Disc jockey, his dream? Yes, humble though it may have been, that was it. Likely he’d never be wealthy, but his needs were simple enough anyway. No great sacrifice there. A love and a relationship to call his very own? That’s it, twist the knife a little deeper. Seven-year career divided up among five midwestern cities, somehow there had not been a lot of time or opportunity for roots and interpersonal solidarity. Town to town, up and down the dial, the WKRP In Cincinnati credo. Wonderful. And now here he was, Paul Handler, living a cliché according to the dictates of late 1970s television.

  The fifth break was scheduled for five o’clock. Peter and Paul carried their mikes back outside, found the crowd had grown by perhaps half again. This was actually getting impressive.

  “Clear your calendars, okay?” Cliff, guarding the sound equipment in their absence. “Danny’s saying he might like to do something like this once a month, at least through the fall.”

  Peter wiggled his shades up and down. “Bonuses in the form of free albums for Peter and Paul, you say?”

  “Hey, you’re a hit, I can work on that,” and no doubt dreams of lucrative commissions were dancing in his head —

  — as Lorraine back-announced the last three songs she had played.

  — as Stacy Donnelly si
pped from a can of Diet Pepsi.

  — as the sound of tires striping hot asphalt during sudden takeoff slashed through the air.

  — as Tina Goodyear mopped glistening sweat from between her ample breasts.

  — as Peter caught Lorraine’s segue into their break.

  — and as Paul abruptly looked to the east and shouted the forbidden word shit live on the air.

  His attention had been pulled to the other end of the block by the double-thud of tires mounting concrete over a curb. It might have been funny, that first sight, silent movie slapstick. Young man down the block with knees pumping in a furious gallop, neither grace nor form, only speed inspired by threat of death. His mouth was open wide, but there was no sound, just a rictus of frozen dread. He abruptly disappeared into a recessed shop doorway, like a vaudeville comedian yanked offstage by an enormous shepherd’s crook. While the car behind him stayed its course, straight and true.

  Big tan junker, grimed with dust, a solid gas-guzzler from a bygone era, held together by scabs of rust. It was bearing down on the crowd, driving down the center of the sidewalk, grillwork looming like the broken grin of a skull. And herein lay the seed of guilt, that everyone’s attention was focused on the two minor media celebrities to such an extent that no one else even knew it was coming.

  But given the locomotive impact of surprise on Paul’s face, Peter’s a moment later, they knew. They knew. Something wrong, terribly wrong. Those with quicker presence of mind spun to check their backsides.

  Stampede, chaos and pandemonium. People bailing toward the street, running to press themselves flat against storefronts, sprinting away along the sidewalk. Paul dropped his microphone, and a hysterical wail of feedback razored the air. He grabbed the two nearest pairs of shoulders and hoped for the best and hustled them toward the building. Peter chugged across the sidewalk — Paul had never seen him move so swiftly, nor even considered he could — and scooped up two more, tumbling with them off the curb between two parked cars.